Baby Dreams

Since I’ve lost weight, I’ve been dreaming again. For a long time, I didn’t enter REM due to my weight. However, since I’ve lost weight, I sleep better and dream again. Very few dreams stay with me longer than a few minutes after I wake, and those that do only last about an hour in my head before drifting off into oblivion.

I awoke yesterday from a very vivid dream. One of those dreams where you are not sure when you awaken what is reality. I dreamed I was pregnant—something I’ve never dreamed before.

I had just found out I was pregnant—verified by a doctor. I knew it was not possible, because I had no uterus. But for whatever reason, it was true. It rather embarrassed me, because I knew people wouldn’t believe I could be pregnant, and they would wonder who I had slept with (knowing I have no boyfriend, they would assume it was a one night stand). I had been nauseated (which I swore I could feel in the dream), and I knew I was 8 weeks pregnant. I realized that my whole life had to be rearranged for this child—I was going to be a single mom. So I had to consider a baby room, daycare, recovery time, etc.

Now, I am a believer that our dreams can have meaning, or even be foretelling. But I also believe they can just be our emotions coming out as we sleep.

The dream was both really cool, and really weird considering my situation. I told it to my sister, who asked, “What are you about to birth in your life?”

So, it’s either a way of my mind saying to prepare for what’s to come, or I had to poop while I was asleep. I’m betting on the latter.

Babies, Shmabies

My cousin posted this on facebook, "Praying very hard! My sister has a doctor appt today . . . .I just want them to finally experience the joy and the love that many of us have found when we had our little babies. They deserve it sooooooooooo much!"

She posted it a few weeks ago, and it immediately annoyed me. I know her sister has had a miscarriage, and I know her sister is young. But the things that annoy me are . . . ."pray" and "deserve". Last I checked, not everyone that can procreate deserves to, and not everyone that deserves a child can procreate. And from my experience, praying doesn't solve the biggest issues of my life.

A girl I went to college with is pregnant and has been posting pics of her ultrasounds. It's her first. And I am happy for these people. I really am. But it reopens wounds when I hear about praying and God's will and deserving. My sister tried for many years to have my niece, and she's tried for years after for another. She is an excellent mom. Do they think we haven't prayed for another child for her? that I hadn't prayed for a decent guy or for my uterus to be saved? I have learned a hard lesson. Life is hard and we shove God into the crevices of our minds--into what we desire. If it works to our favor, then it's God's blessings. If it doesn't work to our favor, then "you can always adopt" is the canned (and very unhelpful) retort.

I played by the rules provided me by the church. So did my sister. And my marriage still failed. Even bigger to me, my uterus is gone. And hearing about God and his will is very unrealistic in my mind. So much of what I've been taught and believed previously has been proven wrong. So where does that leave me? Trying to just get through life, day by day, and enjoy the time with friends. And not think too much about all I've lost. Not think too much about the false teachings. Not think too much about God.

Phoenix Tattoo

A Phoenix is a mythical bird with a fire spirit. It lives every 500 to 1000 years, then ignites and burns to ashes. From the ashes, the phoenix is then reborn.


Several years back, I read the story of the mythological Phoenix. I identified with the necessity of the Phoenix to reinvent itself in order to continue in this world. At that time, I remember thinking that would be an awesome tattoo--something very personal and rather rare. Then I looked online and found out that it is really a very popular tattoo. Ha! But it didn't stop me from wanting one. I considered size, location, and design for years. But a tattoo is permanent.

After last year's health issues, I finally decided to do it. I got the tattoo. Events in life have left me at many a crossroads, where I could choose to continue with the status quo, or I could follow a new path. I have usually chosen the new path, and each time, that has led me to a new realization of self and desire. Each has forced me to redefine myself in order to continue. And so, I identify with this mythological creature. I'm not the person I was 4 years ago, much less the person I was 20 years ago.

Life is full of change, triumphs, defeats, and a million other emotions. But I intend to see it through to the end. No matter how many times I must be reborn. There was a time I wasn't willing to do that--I wanted to either die or just exist until someone plucked me from my personal hell. But not anymore. I will survive, if I have to do it alone, then so be it.

Samwise the Handsome

I was sitting at Rib Crib eating dinner with my parents, when a black lab was begging for scraps. He was getting in the way of cars, who were dodging him. He was yelping, begging, and thin. I told my dad—if he’s over by my car when we leave, I’m taking him home. It was a long shot, because he was on the opposite side of the building from my car. When we paid and left, there he was, not far from my car. I opened the door, “Get in!” And he ran and jumped into the back seat.
I was going to name him Frodo, but my sister convinced me I would regret it. So he became Sam. Samwise. Sambo. Samsonite. Sammy Davis. Bubby. He and Sidney, my female Husky, had some fights. I let them work it out, and was only scared by their fights a few times. But they learned to live together.

I immediately had him spayed, and the vet said he looked like he had been rolled by cars a few times. He was very skittish, and didn’t like to be touched with objects (such as a dog brush) or his paws touched, and became frightened when you attempted either. He was a very loving, lovable, snuggly, licking dog. But, he was a handful.

He was right around a year when I took him in, and he was still a pup. He shredded my sofa. He chewed on my nice wood furniture so I gave it all away. He shredded my living room shades. He ate rolls of toilet paper and sifted through the trash bags. He was a nightmare. But I believed that by taking him in, I took on a responsibility. After a few years, he calmed down. And he became the most docile dog. He never outgrew eating paper and sifting through trash, but he became the dog I hoped he could be.

Sam was my bedmate, my sensitive boy, my snuggler.

When he passed away, he was only 8. We don’t know what really killed him, but whatever it was didn’t waste time. By the time I realized something was seriously wrong, it was too late.

Sam will always be in my heart. It’s just Sidney and I, as before.

Memory

There is such a thing as muscle memory. For example: When I was a small child, car seats were not required, and we rode in the front seat with mom. When my mom was driving and hit the brake, she would automatically reach over to the hold me into my seat with her hand on my chest. Even into adulthood, she did this to me. It was something she didn’t think about and just did. Another example is that my uncle has not smoked in 20 years. A week or so ago he said he pulled out a lighter to light his welder, and found himself with his hands cupped and lighter lit, as if he was lighting a cigarette. It took him by surprise that his body did that after so many years.

Similarly, our minds can do the same thing. My mom’s dog Haley passed away several years ago. We all loved that dog with every cell in our bodies. About six months ago, I walked into my mom’s house, and caught myself thinking, “Where is Haley?” and I walked to the room she usually slept in. I hadn’t done that in years. It left me missing her suddenly in a deep way.

This weekend, I was looking at families and young kids. I caught myself thinking, “I look forward to having a son, watching him grow, and seeing the characteristics of mine that he has inherited.” That’s when I realized, “What am I thinking? I will not bare any children that will have any of my characteristics. My genetic code stops here.”

I know that I can leave a legacy without kids. But I can’t help but think about a family tree, and how my branch ends with me. It is dead. Had I been careless years ago, I could have children and my branch would live on. Yet I chose the responsible path.

I know this depression will pass, and it will likely return again. I have been told by another lady in my position that it gets easier. These thoughts will become less defining. My fate will become more accepted. My expectations and hopes will change. But for now, I’m only 6 months from my hysterectomy, and I’m still battling my own mind.

Aromemory

Yesterday, I mowed with a mask. Ick. The last time I mowed (a few weeks ago), I became sick with a horrendous sinus infection that sent me to the ER once, Urgent Care once, and my primary physician once. I’ve been afraid to mow since. I survived thanks to antibiotics, and lived to mow again. I saw my first snake of the season in my yard last night, and watched as it slithered away. After mowing I felt good, so I began to weed my miniature garden. Not much is growing there but tomatoes, an eggplant, garlic, and romaine lettuce. But it requires maintenance. Everything else I planted I lost due to lack of maintenance. (Oopsies. My bad.)

As I was pulling weeds around my tomato plants, I was overtaken by their aroma. Suddenly, I was 10 years old, and walking through my grandpa’s garden, following him as he identified each row of plants for me. He had a large layout, with every vegetable I could imagine. He even grew sunflowers that seemed to tower over humans. The smell of the tomato plants were pungent as we traipsed up and down the rows. He wielded a pocket knife (always!), and pruned this plant, or removed a veggie from that plant and cut into it. Gourds had been made into birdhouses on a long pole, and he had a grove of apple trees on another area of the property. I followed him into the woods once, as he searched for a certain plant and cut it off at the base (with his pocket knife, of course!) and put it in a bag he carried. I followed along, pointing at this plant or that, “Is this it grandpa?” “Sure is…..good eye!” or “No, that’s not it.”

He never “lived off the land” so to speak. He worked at a refinery. But he loved to grow things. He loved that garden, and gave away bagfuls of cucumbers, zucchini, squash, okra, and tomatoes to visitors. Grandma canned what she could tolerate and the rest was gladly given away. The garden went away after grandma died 10 years ago. The apple tree grove was cut down and a trailer put in it’s place for an uncle to live in. The chickens and geese are no longer there, either. Now, in his 90’s, he cannot keep up with those things.

I sat for a moment and sniffed the tomato plant and relived the past for a few moments and smiled to myself. Then I closed the little makeshift gate on my makeshift fence around my miniature garden, and went in the house with a feeling of gratitude.

Growing . . .

When I was married, we had 2000 SF house. It was a starter house for us. Our goal was to have kids and move into a quieter neighborhood, but we wanted to get ourselves established for a few years first.

When I divorced 8 years ago I bought my current house, which is less than 1,000 SF. It was a stepping stone, you see. I was going to be remarried in a few years, and then my husband and I would find a better home together. After a few years and I had no good prospects, I began some home improvement projects. They were mainly to help the value of my home so that when Mr. Right came along I could sell the house easily. I ran out of money and patience. My dad became weak and is no longer able to provide the muscle that I need to finish some of the work. But Mr. Right would help me one day. And until then, I let things just…….sit.

My hysterectomy was a jolt of lightening. It changed everything. If I couldn’t have kids, what did I want for myself? I had lived the past 8 years in anticipation of a great change. Correction: I had existed in anticipation of a great change, because I didn’t really LIVE. And the hysterectomy was a wake-up call: I will never bare my own children, so what if I never marry again? What legacy will I have left if I continue at this pace?

Last night, as I was rearranging things, throwing out old books and memories, cutting off the unnecessary pieces of my past that I had been clinging to, I realized I had forgotten how to live. It took 3 years to recover emotionally from my divorce, and by then, I didn’t know how to live anymore. I treated my home the way I treated myself—with neglect and disrespect.

And so, I have been clearing out stuff. I’ve been working to get my house to reflect this person that I am now. It will take time and a lot of patience. I pray I am able to keep the momentum.

This isn’t another rambling about my divorce that happened forever ago. It’s actually a positive thing that my hysterectomy brought my way . . . .