I thought by now I'd be back to normal. Normal. What is normal? I hardly remember what that means. Was there a time when I wasn't having seizures? It's now my daily life.
But it's not my entire life.
I desperately wanted to go on this vacation. But I felt timid. What if I have a seizure at the hotel? What if my legs give out at the beach? What if my seizures suck up an entire day of vacation?
There were a million what-ifs. But I didn't care. Life is full of 'em. And I didn't want those darned what- if's to keep me from my life...let alone, the beach.
But it's not my entire life.
I desperately wanted to go on this vacation. But I felt timid. What if I have a seizure at the hotel? What if my legs give out at the beach? What if my seizures suck up an entire day of vacation?
There were a million what-ifs. But I didn't care. Life is full of 'em. And I didn't want those darned what- if's to keep me from my life...let alone, the beach.
Some days I handle the seizures better than others. I feel strong. I am strong. I take care of my family. I cook. I read to my kids. I go for walks with Jane. And play piano with Megan. And color with Paige. And make cookies with Mitchell. And it all makes me feel incredibly lucky.
But sometimes, as I lay in bed recovering, I lack hope. My body lie still, heavy, on the bed. I can't speak. I want to cry. I search within for something to grasp on to. But in my heart, I feel empty. I listen as Matt puts a child to bed and I feel sad that it's not me. I want to be there. It used to always be me. I feel weak. I yearn for strength. And answers. But they don't always come. So I just have to wake up in the morning. And start again. And again. Every day delivers another chance to create new memories. And stronger bonds. And more love.
For me, the beach is magical. I feel like a child with the sand stuck between my toes. Jumping in the waves exhilarates me. I want to run, free, forever, under the enormous sun, my skin glowing with pink. There is so much to create, to explore, to discover, to feel.
But this time, it wasn't the beach that held all that rejuvenating power. It was found in memorable moments with my kids. When Mitchell would laugh, his mouth stuffed full of food around the table with his sisters, his head thrown back with joy.
It was that first night when Paige snatched the notepad from the drawer and sat down to scribble her thoughts. My mom and dad are really nice. My little sister Jane is really funny. My sister Megan is the best sister ever. My brother Mitchell is really good with imaginations. And of course, me! How could I forget myself? Well, I am EVERYTHING and I am sure of that. That is the truth. The end.
It was when Matt and I strolled along the water's edge, leading the kids toward the tide pools. I turned my head to peek at the two beautiful girls behind me, two sisters. They walked hand in hand. Megan was whispering in Paige's ear. Paige cracked up. They stopped and dug something from the sand, then continued on. Unaware of my attention, they basked in their friendship. It was extraordinary to watch. How lucky those two are.
It was when we sat down to watch a movie. Everyone fought over mom. I want to sit by mom! I want to sit by mom! I want to sit by mom. Everyone, except Mitchell. "I want to sit by Daddy," he said, matter-of-factly, as he curled onto his father's lap.
It was watching Jane at the beach. Jane loved the beach. Not the waves. But the beach. She and I searched for shells. And seaweed. And feathers. And leaves. And anything else that might be undiscovered treasure. We built a castle. Jane decorated it. On a large piece of drift wood she'd thrust in the sand, she hung long strands of sea grass like tinsel. She wrapped bulbs of seaweed around the castle's edge and carefully placed purple shells like jewels on each wall. She lost herself in this task the entire morning. It was truly inspiring to see the beauty she so clearly sees before her.
It was watching Megan so eager for a chance to catch Jane in the pool. It was eating beignets dusted with powdered sugar for breakfast on the beach. It was chasing waves with the kids' hands locked in mine. It was laughing at their faces as the water chased their feet. It was continually stopping for Jane, who simply cannot pass a single bush without picking a flower and bringing it home to enjoy. Even the pink one that smelled like a skunk.
It was cracking up as Megan bolted through the tunnel faster than she'd moved her entire life. (She hates tunnels. And spider webs, which were in particular abundance this time of year.) It was overhearing Jane comfort her fallen stuffed sea lion and cradling him in her arms. Oh, you poor little sweetie.
It was Megan and Paige losing a tooth on the very same day. Paige giggled bubbly after her tooth came out in her pizza. And Megan, scared, but ready, allowed her dad to yank out her aching tooth. They went to bed happy to be sharing such a thrilling event.
It was falling asleep tucked between Mitchell and Jane, each of their hands steady on my heart. It was watching Paige unload her dolls, and her paintbrushes, her special pens, journals, blankets, jewelry, and every other item she can't live without. It was taking Jane on her first ferris wheel and watching her soak it up. It was playing skee-ball at the arcade. And reading the Worst Witch. And sharing a chocolate-banana milkshake with Megan. And watching my kids interact with each other like they wouldn't rather be with anyone else in the entire world.
And it was driving home in the dark at the end of the fun, when my husband looked at me and said, "that was a fun trip."
It was.
This trip filled those recent crevices in my heart. The ones that sometimes carve a path for emptiness that can, at times, overwhelm me. I feel so thankful for the few days we spent together at the beach. And for every day that I'm with them, regardless of where we are.
But sometimes, as I lay in bed recovering, I lack hope. My body lie still, heavy, on the bed. I can't speak. I want to cry. I search within for something to grasp on to. But in my heart, I feel empty. I listen as Matt puts a child to bed and I feel sad that it's not me. I want to be there. It used to always be me. I feel weak. I yearn for strength. And answers. But they don't always come. So I just have to wake up in the morning. And start again. And again. Every day delivers another chance to create new memories. And stronger bonds. And more love.
For me, the beach is magical. I feel like a child with the sand stuck between my toes. Jumping in the waves exhilarates me. I want to run, free, forever, under the enormous sun, my skin glowing with pink. There is so much to create, to explore, to discover, to feel.
But this time, it wasn't the beach that held all that rejuvenating power. It was found in memorable moments with my kids. When Mitchell would laugh, his mouth stuffed full of food around the table with his sisters, his head thrown back with joy.
It was that moment when I taught Jane to swim. When I said, "You can do it! You can! You can do it Jane!" And she did. She did it. She swam. And swam. And swam. She jumped off the edge, her cheeks puffed with air, her eyes shut tight, her mouth curled up into a smile and her arms extended for the safety of my arms. And every time, as she arrived at the finish line, she jumped on her feet, her arms tossed toward the sky and shouted, "I did it! I did it!"
It was that first night when Paige snatched the notepad from the drawer and sat down to scribble her thoughts. My mom and dad are really nice. My little sister Jane is really funny. My sister Megan is the best sister ever. My brother Mitchell is really good with imaginations. And of course, me! How could I forget myself? Well, I am EVERYTHING and I am sure of that. That is the truth. The end.
It was when Matt and I strolled along the water's edge, leading the kids toward the tide pools. I turned my head to peek at the two beautiful girls behind me, two sisters. They walked hand in hand. Megan was whispering in Paige's ear. Paige cracked up. They stopped and dug something from the sand, then continued on. Unaware of my attention, they basked in their friendship. It was extraordinary to watch. How lucky those two are.
It was watching Jane at the beach. Jane loved the beach. Not the waves. But the beach. She and I searched for shells. And seaweed. And feathers. And leaves. And anything else that might be undiscovered treasure. We built a castle. Jane decorated it. On a large piece of drift wood she'd thrust in the sand, she hung long strands of sea grass like tinsel. She wrapped bulbs of seaweed around the castle's edge and carefully placed purple shells like jewels on each wall. She lost herself in this task the entire morning. It was truly inspiring to see the beauty she so clearly sees before her.
It was cracking up as Megan bolted through the tunnel faster than she'd moved her entire life. (She hates tunnels. And spider webs, which were in particular abundance this time of year.) It was overhearing Jane comfort her fallen stuffed sea lion and cradling him in her arms. Oh, you poor little sweetie.
It was Megan and Paige losing a tooth on the very same day. Paige giggled bubbly after her tooth came out in her pizza. And Megan, scared, but ready, allowed her dad to yank out her aching tooth. They went to bed happy to be sharing such a thrilling event.
It was falling asleep tucked between Mitchell and Jane, each of their hands steady on my heart. It was watching Paige unload her dolls, and her paintbrushes, her special pens, journals, blankets, jewelry, and every other item she can't live without. It was taking Jane on her first ferris wheel and watching her soak it up. It was playing skee-ball at the arcade. And reading the Worst Witch. And sharing a chocolate-banana milkshake with Megan. And watching my kids interact with each other like they wouldn't rather be with anyone else in the entire world.
It was Balboa. Oh Balboa, how I love you so. I loved you as a child. And I love you even still. It was filling up bags of salt water taffy and other treats at the colorful candy shop. It was the little book store. Or getting our hands scrubbed at the fancy soap store. Or Megan stopping at every knick-knack store on the street, admiring each and every treasured trincket. Or Paige spending her hard earned three dollars on a beaded ring boasting an enormous plastic flower on top. It was Mitchell anticipating his Balboa Bar. And Jane drippily devouring hers. (Along with the pigeons at her feet.) And it was the sugared donuts and the arcade tickets and the salty clam chowder and the shell shops and the boats.
It was.
This trip filled those recent crevices in my heart. The ones that sometimes carve a path for emptiness that can, at times, overwhelm me. I feel so thankful for the few days we spent together at the beach. And for every day that I'm with them, regardless of where we are.
This will be my last post on this beloved blog. I've decided to move on from The Daily Grapefruit. Oh, how I have loved writing on this blog. I cherish every post. Every picture. Every thought. I have been given so much strength from your comments, your friendship, your faith in me. Thank you for reading. And sharing.
I will always be a blogger. I always have been! I will just go back to doing it in my own, private journal. Life is intense right now. And foreign. And strange. And wonderful. And sacred. It just feels as though I need to step into these new experiences on my own.
Thank you, to each and every one of you, who has taken the time to write me, to pray for my family, to mail a package, to send a card. It has truly meant the world to me, and my family. We will be forever grateful.
The End.
I will always be a blogger. I always have been! I will just go back to doing it in my own, private journal. Life is intense right now. And foreign. And strange. And wonderful. And sacred. It just feels as though I need to step into these new experiences on my own.
Thank you, to each and every one of you, who has taken the time to write me, to pray for my family, to mail a package, to send a card. It has truly meant the world to me, and my family. We will be forever grateful.
The End.
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