BJ's Blog

I’ve forgotten how to do this–how to wake up in the morning and write instead of rushing off to work, instead of falling back to sleep on the couch, instead of reading endless posts on social media about the demise of our world since the election of Trump. But the rain washed all the snow away and the sadness of that has caused me to pause and ponder why the rain came, why the snow left, and why I’m stuck in this rut of lethargy.

Three weeks ago we had record snow. Every morning I awoke to several new inches that needed shoveling. We removed just enough snow for one car to move in and out of our driveway. And I was tired at the end of every day. People slid off the road into drifts, unable to extract themselves. Every day that I drove to work I increased my risk. We’d become bumper cars at Lagoon. So by Thursday of that snowy week I watched the inevitable happen in slow motion on the corner of Tyler and 30th. The tears of the OHS senior who slid into my two-month old Prius reminded me to act like an adult: “It’s only the bumper, no one was hurt, please don’t worry.”

Now only remnants of the three feet of whiteness. Green grass, dog poop, bits of garbage revealed. It happens every year–the February melt–but it never fails to unnerve me. I’m not ready to emerge. I still lack energy.

In January, So to Speak published Three Shorts. I was glad to have the “Waste” piece out at last. But what other writing have I done? The piece on Jake moving out, in August. Long time ago now. My baby girl turned 17. My son will be 19 next week. I work, I sleep, I read/watch stuff. Henry ages faster than time slips. Am I prepared for his demise? I will take him walking today.

And I still miss Bubba….

Not necessarily well-lit, but certainly tidy and empty of my son. We moved Jake to the Chapel Glen dorms on August 18th, move-in day at the U of U. He sorted his clothes–giving some away and laundering the rest–dusted and vacuumed the space he’d dumped his stuff in. Candy from two Christmases ago attracting bugs; a calendar that Bubba peed on during last summer’s fireworks; an un-cashed check written on 12/10/14 to Ogden High Debate; detritus of a teenage boy’s progress from 11 to 18.

The summer after he turned 11 he picked out red for the walls and ceiling, lime green for the trim and doors. We gave away the little kid furniture and bought black Malm from iKEA. By 13, he needed darker curtains so he could sleep; by 15 he was bored with the colors; by 17 he’d stopped cleaning his room. Two days ago, he carefully dusted the knick-knacks on his shelves and moved the photos of his grandparents to his dresser. I washed his blanket, “nana,” with Grandma G’s patch of cherries, a repair to the fleece burned by standing too close to the gas fireplace. Nana stayed home yesterday.

I haven’t cleaned the bathroom…the one I cleaned four years ago when his dad moved out. I won’t fill in the empty spaces. Perhaps Maggie will do that this time. Like Henry did when Bubba left? We move in pairs. Inhabiting spaces in even numbers. The unevenness rankles. After my ex, we equilibrated with Charlie. We’ve been uneven since Bubba died in May. Jake’s departure restores the balance in our home. Maybe. I’m rationalizing to placate myself. A clean smaller nest.

and re-engaging, at least a little bit, with my writing. a 100-word flash non-fiction piece for Stitch. “stuck in time.”

I observe time slip, help myself to its elongations in the mornings and surrender to its protractions in the evenings. I pad around the bulging hours from 8 to noon: a cat, nesting into a shawl clumped on the couch. I dig into the meat of the day from noon to 5: a dog, dashing to the door, offering a toy, whining, circling. I flit about the flashing hours from 5 to 10: a moth, on a suicide mission to the light, crazed by the brightness, burned in the glare. I crash into time’s oblivion in bed. No more time.

gotta start someplace.

I miss writing blog posts, reading about writing, finding places to submit my writing, tinkering with pieces of puzzles that might form essays. But as the various responsibilities that I’ve had this past year slip from me, I’m beginning to see some room to fit in writing again.

My Moby-Dick class ends this week–though the grading won’t end until next. So then it will be only the dean transition: saying goodbye to Catherine and hello to Scott. Then navigating the new office situation. This will be a lot less than what I *had* been doing: coordinating the Engaged Learning Series and serving as Interim Associate Dean. May was particularly crazy as I taught my class, filled in for Mike (Acting Director of CCEL) and Catherine (Interim Dean).

Acting: performing a job for a short time : holding a temporary position

Interim: used or accepted for a limited time : not permanent

Similar and yet not. The former implies a stop-gap person. The latter implies a qualified substitute.

A lot has happened since last summer, and I’ve had so little time to process it. Busy working and living I guess. Many trips: Torrey, Sun Valley, California, Santa Fe/Taos, Washington DC, Kayenta, Seattle, Zion. And busy hanging out and dating–a lovely change. Someday I’ll write about that.

We lost Bubba on May 3rd. I keep meaning to write something about him but haven’t yet found the words. I miss him every day.

It was hot like today. With cotton blowing. Friends and family have died and divorced. My hair has turned gray. And two people now inhabit the planet. They make it worth every hair, every sleepless night, every worry, every scar, every expense. I like to think that we did it all for them.

Why marry? Because you will marry the wrong person. I had romantic notions that marriage was the goal, so when I reached 30 and 31 and 32 I worried that I never would marry and thus never achieve the goal. So the stakes were high when I met my future husband–or re-met him and looked at him as a potential mate instead of just my brother’s roommate. The thrill of connection, the joy of having someone to put my arm around…

Having put “writing” on my calendar for at least one hour every Saturday and Sunday I find myself doing that thing where I flounder about, searching for something to say. Close the other tabs, exit “Messenger,” focus on *this page.* Yesterday I re-read my blog and other stuff I’ve written. It felt stale, stuck. Well perhaps not that exactly…maybe too earnest. I’m liking the idea of tighter forms. The Unraveling short snippet approach. Or “Trash” (reworked version of it hurts my heart) though no one’s accepted that one, and I now have only a couple of places considering it. I could bundle it with some other short pieces–and that way I don’t have to write anything new 😉

The catch-all term for an aging body, “degenerative disc disease,” captures the essence of my life. I’m 53–over that proverbial hill–entering menopause (see disorganized), where I lose my collagen-saturated skin, my resilience to injury, my quick wit, my 8-hour sleeps, my sex appeal.

Tripartite diagnoses:

• disorganized menses
• lateral epicondylitis
• degenerative disc disease

So I meet my annual deductible in attempts to “treat” these conditions. In vain. The cycle refuses to regulate, the elbow resists the third injection, and the back remains stubbornly sore. When to fight? When to resign?

I have three diagnoses, three jobs. I’m inclined toward threes. They serve such a lovely narrative function. But they can feel redundant. And predictable. I’m ready to move toward two. Two diagnoses, two jobs. Fix one, eliminate one: operate on the elbow, opt out of a position. Then I’ll persist with the other two. Eventually my menses will cease and my back pain will resolve (or it won’t and then I’ll find another option). In two months the two remaining work positions will be resolved.

Lop them off: elbow and job.

with an old issue: back pain a la 8 years ago when we spent Christmas in Hawaii. two visits to the chiropractor, one visit to my internist. but since then I’ve added yoga and haven’t taken any pain meds apart from NSAIDs. so the sciatic pain is not as bad. still it lingers.

and so there’s that. and this: my less than firm determination to write more this year. to somehow find the time and energy to pull together a handful of essays. sabbatical was only a year ago. I can’t recall what I did in 2015. I need a writing narrative–a story of my writing life that captures the moments when I connected with the page, when I braided the thoughts into something that lifted off, peeled off and clung to a window. a blog becoming a window clingy, or whatever those see-through sticker things are called. perhaps a brief log or journal recounting my weekly progress. a list of “things I’ve done” to account for the time that slips, slips, slips, slips, slips, slips.

meanwhile, some stuff:

• a viola for Renae, Peter Prier Violin shop, old wood and rosin, shelves of dissembled violins–like bowling ball shoes or ice skates in their designated boxes. and smoking, 7-11, smell on my jacket.
• no more spark, no more flutterings in the gut, in spite of the familiar smells and hugs, nothing. a quiet comfort and recognition of our older age, shared experiences, similar singleness and parenting positions. my need to return to the place of so much emotional energy and scratch about in it, see if it still resonates, still calls to me. I return to learn about myself, to see how far I’ve come. and to remind myself that I am more than that now.

“To give up a child for adoption, to relinquish a baby to another’s care.”

Sever the bond between you and the person you carried inside you for 9 months, the being that shared your body, the creature that absorbed your nutrients, the infant that now carries 23 of your chromosomes and will spread your genetic material throughout the universe.

“Here, he is yours now.”

While I was in Switzerland with my parents, safely ensconced at the Garderie d’Enfants nursery school in Geneva, my aunt relinquished a baby. Mom’s sister. Seven years younger, so maybe eighteen or nineteen years old. She and her then boyfriend later husband had a son. Several years later they had two more sons. There are three–I only know two. Grandma sent her away to Milwaukee, Chicago? While I sang “Sur le Pont D’Avignon” and danced in a ring.

“Here, he is yours now.”

My sister has twin boys. After in vitro fertilization, three embryos implanted, became viable. Baby A, Baby B, Baby C. As her pregnancy progressed, the risks increased–for her and the three babies. All boys.

Selective reduction (or multifetal pregnancy reduction or MFPR) is the practice of reducing the number of fetuses in a multifetal pregnancy, say quadruplets, to a twin or singleton pregnancy.

My sister’s fetuses were selectively reduced to two. Baby C was selected. Baby A and Baby B filled the space vacated by Baby C. They shared the portion suddenly allotted. They grew, they thrived. Baby A and Baby B are 7 years old.

“Here, he is yours now.”

A close call, a revisitation from the angry past. Reminders that I have a pattern of seeking out people in pain, people in trouble. I’m drawn to the ones who want fixing.

The first, the close call, was a text, a toe dipped into the waters of dating. But really it was just a toe extended toward the water, not making contacting, just testing the air temperature. And the air was cold so I withdrew my toe before touching the water.

The second, the angry past, thrust its fist through my cell phone. After the text punches three months ago, I’d unblocked the number, thinking enough time had passed. But the past never really passes does it?  I kept my fingers to myself and typed “please stop.”

A toe, a finger. One peeks, the other points. Digits projecting beyond the safe sphere of self. Pressing into the sphere of another, pushing into the soft tissue membrane of human skin, human emotion. Texting, testing, tentative; texting, blaming, accusatory.