Keeping Pace

Keeping Pace

Shopping for schools

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There were many reasons for the tears welling up in my eyes as YaYa and I sat side by side in a high school gym. The muscle spasm in my right glut was just one of them. With the open house being scheduled on the same day as my half marathon I had no time for deep stretching and foam rolling following the race. As it was, I barely made it home on time. We left 20 minutes after my return home and rushed to get there on time. Now, here we were center stage and two rows from the front.

We listened to high school seniors rave about their high school experience and how a future of opportunities was theirs for the taking. Following graduation, these students would file off to only the best of colleges. My mind couldn’t help but leap forward to the day that YaYa might be in their shoes – successfully having enjoyed the bulk of his high school days and looking forward to college and beyond. The thought brought on hope and sadness all at the same time.

YaYa’s father had a love for education. I remember how proud he was to attend his oldest son’s graduation from high school. I remember how much I was looking forward to seeing BoBo do the same. But, for reasons I cannot go into, I was not able to have that moment.

Certainly these students were hand-picked for the job. Public speaking was well within their comfort level and, having obviously taken advantage of all that the school had to offer. But these four were only a few of the incredible young adults we encountered. As the tour continued, we encountered many along the way. It’s no wonder that each year nearly 1,500 applicants apply for the 400 available spots in the school. These statistics, coupled with the list of criteria that are reviewed, is enough to discourage the interested even before they have submitted their applications. And that doesn’t even take into account the cost for school tuition.

Yet, 3 hours later, we left the school totally jazzed about the possibilities this could open up to YaYa. When we returned home, YaYa started working on homework assignments due midweek. I, on the other hand, began contemplating the pain staking task of working out my body’s newest aches and pains. The foam roller was waiting.

Office space

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Earlier in the year, my department moved from the 2nd to the 1st floor of the building. We were given very little notice to pack up our things and move downstairs. Having moved jobs too many times in the past many years, I had my things packed within 3 hours of the announcement. My coworkers were left scrambling for days.

The resulting intermixing of the departments took a bit for my hyper-acute senses to acclimate to. I adjusted to the new noises which included, among others, the constant hum of the computer server in the neighboring cubicle and a rather passionate coworker who outwardly expresses her frustration while reading emails. Well, I’ve almost adjusted. Honestly, I’m still getting used to my coworker’s reactions which span the gamut from loud sighs to pressure-cooker like steaming of “OMG,” “You have GOT to be kidding me!” and other various expressions of frustration. Sometimes I just have to walk away from my desk for a bit to let my own blood pressure go down as she continues to let off steam.

Next there are the smells. Yes, smells! Unfortunately for me, not everyone is as selective in their choice of perfume — nor as stingy in the amount applied. I’m have been so sensitive to intense fragrances that I’ve actually (in past jobs) left work with migraines as a result. I suppose that is why I have yet to find a fragrance for myself to wear on those special occasions. In our close-nit quarters, however, the new scents have fooled my mind into thinking they were a whole other smell all together. After wandering around trying to find the source of the bug-spray-like smell, I crawled back to my desk when I realized that it must be someone’s perfume. Why the #^@& they feel the need to apply what smells like 1/2 the bottle after lunch is beyond me. I just hoped that nobody heard me verbalizing my uneasiness.

Other than my brief stay, after Company G purchased Company C and moved me an hour from home, I have not had to deal with cubicle dwelling for upwards of 10 years. Wait, make that EVER. I know it’s just how things are these days, but I still miss having my own office space, and a door that I can shut when I need to shut out the sounds and smells of others — or protect others from my own outbursts and odors.

Did I mention that it’s FREEZING?

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Día de los Muertos

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Also known as Day of the Dead, Día de los Muertos is a day set aside to honor the souls of the departed. Whether it be as elaborate as a huge celebration of life, or a simple as a prayer or lit candle, the decision to do something holds tremendous significance. For those left behind, the death may have been felt as a force so destructive to their world that they too felt a part of themselves die.

I remember well the first time I participated in Día de Muertos activities. Gathered at Big Sis’ house, we celebrated (and mourned) the loss of not one but three lives. Blessed with good food, fun, games, and prayer, the day was one filled with lots of love. Of course there were many tears but, also, there was laughter.

For me, that day was perhaps one of the first of many significant days of healing in the life-after-death. The day was a reminder that not only is it possible to embrace life in the face of death, but that it is also a way to honor the departed.

self-assertion

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When someone dies, people focus all of their energy on remembering all the goodness that person brought to their lives. In the initial period of loss, it makes sense; it helps lesson the pain.

For me, there came a point where I needed to acknowledge the wrongs so that I could move on in my life. I had to examine my relationship (good and bad) to make decisions on what I wanted and perhaps more importantly, what I didn’t want if I was to even consider a future with someone else.

That process stimulated a lot of ill feelings which I fought back for a time. It’s okay to be mad at yourself for your wrong doings, but people don’t like you being angry with the dead. You’re only supposed to think good thoughts of them.

After a bit, I discounted that idea on only-happy-thoughts as another one of the fallacies of loss. Just like how people think you’ll just get over it in a year or two, it is a misconception. It does no good to consider only bits and pieces of the whole person – whether alive or dead. “For better or for worse,” right?

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Getting Closer

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My love affair for Keith Urban began at a time where falling in love with someone other than my deceased husband was simply not an option. It was a time of hiding. I wore my wedding ring like an invisibility cloak to insure that no man would notice me.

Yet I longed to be loved. My groupies and I joked about having some random love affair just to feel like we were still alive. Of course, almost immediately after the joke came out, it was snatched up off the table for safety’s sake. We all knew that we were just too broken for any real sort of encounter. Unlike the others from my widow’s support group, I was certain that someday I would be brave enough to accept another man’s love.

I started small. In the wee hours of the night, I listening to my iTunes, desperately trying to fall asleep. Of all my music, Keith Urban’s songs soothed me the best. I imagined that he was in the room playing his guitar and singing me to sleep. Although I joked about him leaving his lovely bride to be with me, him singing me to sleep to cure my insomnia truly was the extent of my fantasy. For me, it was enough.

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