Teach Them How to Say Good-Bye

I have had my next blog post planned for a while. It's a great piece about the next stage of our life, and has this great metaphor/life lessons based on our street name. It's gonna be poignant and emotional, and you'll love it.

But today, I'm going to write about death.

Binx is going to the other side today. We have fought it off for basically all of quarantine. But the last

month has been a quick descent. His recurring skin issue turned into a MRSA infection, and then an enlarged spleen. He stopped eating, and dropped to under 6 pounds.

Yesterday, he ate, but also peed on the floor. And I had a mix of hope and fear. Last night, he laid on the bed with me all night. He purred and snuggled. But also peed on the bed, because he can't get down. This morning I watched him half stumble/fall to his litter box, where he laid down in it. 

I was leaning against the stairs, watching him sitting on top of his own poo, when Clark walked up. 

"What are you doing?"

"Looking at Binx. He's not doing well."

"I know."

"We might have to say good-bye to him."

"I know. It's OK."

I feel so ill-equipped to tell my son our cat is dying. He barely remembers Dave. But Binx has been his cat. They snuggle together. Binx tolerates an enormous amount from him. It's like they're specially made to be each other's people.

And my grief feels so large by itself. 

I am not someone who thinks pets are people, too. I think pets are pets. They aren't children. They're pets. That's not to diminish the place they have in our hearts. But as someone who deeply loves both a child and a pet, I know that the love is different. My cat is a cat — he's not a person. The space that he fills in my heart is different than the space filled by my son. It's a furrier place. It is a place that can only be filled by 8 pounds of furry, warm, scratchy cat.  To say the love is the same diminishes both. It's not the same — it's different and special.

I've never had to do this. As a kid, the pet death always happened without me. And I would feel lonely and miss them, but another pet would come eventually and fill the fuzzy hole. Even when Dave left us, I didn't have to face it — he just disappeared. It was its own kind of pain.

My mom suggested I could just let nature take its course. But I know that's days of watching my guy lay there. Cleaning up after him. Wondering if he's in pain. That's the thing about Binx — he's not a talker. He never has been. He only makes noise if you step on him. Or if you have a rotisserie chicken. Through all this, he's been silent.

Yesterday, our next door neighbor stopped by to ask if we had a black cat. He'd been laying in the well of his downstairs window for three hours, not moving. The neighbor was really worried that he was dead. TJ collected him - small and fragile, but still breathing.

I told Clark this morning that Dad was taking Binx to the vet, and we needed to say good-bye. I worry that my big grief will overwhelm him. But he's a strong, resilient little kid. And I know when we get settled in our new place, it won't be long before we go looking for another fuzzy something to fill the void.

But today, I will use a sick day. And I will spend the last hour with Binx, curled up on the couch. Petting his bony head. Telling him good-bye, and that I'm sorry we didn't have more time. And I hope that his last four years with us were good years. And I hope he and Dave can be friends on the other side. And that I wish there was more we could have done. 

You were a great cat, Binx. You earned a place in cat heaven, if anyone ever did. 

And we love you.

Good-bye.

Reflections on the Moment

I don't know what to do with what's happening in the world right now.

I see so much vitriol online, on all sides, and I'm overwhelmed. A friend called us all out: "If you aren't doing something right now, you're racist."

That seemed like so much. But I pondered it. Am I? I don't think so. But am I doing anything?

I can't tell.

I grew up in North Idaho, near an active white supremacist compound. It's what people know my hometown for, which I've always found unfair. I try to explain it — People don't move there because we love racists. People move there because we're a small, rural community that wants to be left alone and values individualism. Celebrities are attracted it. So are people who want to hide. So are people with unsavory political briefs. And people who like to fill their yard with broken down cars. Our attitude is basically, "Just keep your crazy in your lawn. As long as it's not on my lawn, it's fine."

In the past year, I found that I had unwittingly caused harm to a colleague of color. I was devastated to know that, but more to know that they didn't see me as a person they could tell. That we never got to talk about it. I had to learn after the fact, and try to educate myself. And do better. I have to think hard about the words I use, and how they make others feel.

Because at the end of the day, I am a privileged middle class white woman. I grew up in a non-diverse community. I went to a non-diverse school. My first interaction with overt racism was when I moved to South Dakota as an adult and came face-to-face with lingering issues and racism faced by the Native population. It stunned me. "This exists?" I thought when I heard a friend warn me not to rent a house in the dangerous "Native" neighborhood. Despite living so near hateful people my whole life, it hadn't spilled onto my lawn, so to speak.

I wounded a colleague because I wasn't thoughtful. I didn't consider that they wouldn't feel comfortable in spaces the same way that I do. As a privileged, educated white woman, I have rarely entered a room in which I didn't feel 100% comfortable, like I had a right to exist in that space and feel heard. But if your skin tone doesn't afford you that privilege, you may be offended when someone like me confronts you.

It takes a lot to consider how people's identities — seen and unseen — change how they show up in a space. It takes emotional energy to make sure that I am using my position of privilege to make space for others, that my comfort at being heard gives way to hearing.

This past weekend, we went to the river, and Clark befriended another child. They played and splashed for hours, and I loved how much fun he was having. The other kiddo had brown skin. I loved that my son didn't hesitate for one moment to play with him. I loved that it didn't come up. I know that it's ignorant and not helpful to want to raise a "color blind" child. I do want him to never hesitate to play with another child regardless of how they look or talk or dress. I also want to raise a child who is full of empathy and emotional intelligence, and has a good foundation to know that how he shows up as a white man will impact the marginalized people in the room.

My next door neighbor is black. We smile and wave at each other across the lawn. I know his first name, which is rare anymore with neighbors. But that's all I know. I want to know if there's anything I could do for him. I want him to know he's welcome in this neighborhood. I want him to feel safe. I don't want to show up on his front step and say, "Hi! I'm the white lady next door and I want to see if I can use my privilege to help you!" That's unpardonably arrogant.

But I will still smile. I will wave. I will make more of an effort to call out a greeting by name. I will never assume the worst of him. I will sit in the discomfort of my privilege and do everything I can to look for places to create spaces of welcome. I will make mistakes. I will offend where none was meant, and have to deal with the consequences of wounding others.

I will not make the marginalized educate me. I will educate myself. I will educate my child.

It's so little. It's not enough.

It's something.

It's time to face that the crazy has spilled over onto all our lawns now. We have to do everything we can to push it back.

The Truth About Not Being OK

I'm not OK.

It's super likely that you are not OK, either.

We are in week number whatever of this thing. My kiddo hasn't seen any of his friends since March 14, when we had a pretty good little birthday party. I'm very grateful for that. And then, it just all blew up.

I created a solid little routine coming to the home office every day. Working a regular schedule. Not taking it "home" (into another room) with me. Keeping up a brave face.

The shiny veneer is starting to wear thin. I am, quite likely, going to crack.

Every interview I start these days, we look at each other through our pixels and laugh awkwardly, "How are you DOING?" we say. And I laugh and say, "Oh, ya know, I'm surviving!" And they laugh. We both look a little crazy. I don't say, "I cried at my desk for 30 minutes today. I think my body is shutting down. My child is on the verge of emotional collapse, and my husband is so exhausted from being everyone else's emotional punching bag that after bedtime, he's basically an empty shell."

I don't say that. Because we hold this steadfast belief that we need to Be Strong in the face of crisis. And I certainly know how to play that game. But be real: That approach only works when there are other, stronger, mentally healthy people around to bolster you. When we can take turns having crisis. When everyone is in crisis all at once, where do you go? Where can you turn? How can you fathom burdening someone else with your feelings, when they're in the same sinking ship as you? We've hit the ice-burg. Everyone is trying to find a lifeboat. No one has time to talk to you about your concerns about the fit of your safety vest.

And so I don't have a deep answer today. I don't know where to put my stress. All I can do is keep waking up, fall into the pattern of my routine, hope it's enough to get us through. Pray I'll have a job when this is over. Pray my stress won't make me so neurotic that I get fired anyway. Pray my heart will stop pounding like this all the time. Pray for sleep. No dreams. Just an abyss of eight hours a night where my brain can rest in darkness and silence.

Pray that I can keep managing to not collapse in a ball on the floor and sob in front of my son. Pray that he comes out of this remembering the fun stuff, and not the trauma. Pray that we don't all get sick anyway, and make all of this for nothing.

Pray the schools reopen.

Pray for normal. Realize that I don't know what "normal" is anymore.

So today I just want to take a moment and say: I see you. I see that you're not OK, too. It's OK to stop pretending. And if you need someone to unload your emotional burdens on, I'm here. And I may give you some of mine. At least, if we're all holding them up together, it may not feel so much like we're about to collapse.

Skating Through to Victory

I fell at practice last night. An epic fall. A full-speed, around a corner, ended up backward on my back fall.

It was a great fall.

It was also a devastating fall.

It was devastating because I was in the midst of being on pace to finally — finally — break my yearlong plateau of 22 laps in 5 minutes. I was mentally prepared. I was as physically prepared as I could be at this moment in my journey. I pushed.

I fell.

The goal of hitting 27 laps in 5 minutes (the dreaded "27/5") hangs over the heads of all but the most quick-footed skaters. It feels at times an impossible task. And it is a barrier that can keep skaters from passing the required minimum skills and being roster-eligible.

And that's the real problem here.

There's a bout on March 7. A B-level bout. (I can skate B bouts!) And it's in Pullman. And every fiber of my being wants to be there. But, I'm coming to realize, not necessarily for the best reasons.

I want to skate in that bout because I think I can. I also want to skate in that bout because it feels like a proof point. I broke down in tears over the weekend worrying about my laps, and sobbed to my spouse, this bout isn't just a bout. It's like being the pretty popular girl at the party while your ex-boyfriend stands alone in a corner.

"I just want to prove that they didn't break me," I cried.

So turns out maybe I haven't quite dealt with all the emotional pain associated with the Palouse. I have made so much personal and emotional progress living in Walla Walla. I have dealt with some toxic behavior and habits. I have had some intense therapy. I have pushed myself physically in ways I never thought possible. And I know that I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for there.

Maybe that's where the pain is. The pain of realizing I spent three years in a place not quite hitting the marks I know I am now capable of. Holding myself back. Hurting my own chances. It's a little bit of disappointment mixed with shame. And still, some anger and resentment that the support and love I have found here — from my bosses, from my husband, from my friends, from my community, from myself — wasn't something I could access in Moscow, a place I considered home.

So yeah, I have some emotional baggage associated with showing up there in my true, proud Pinkie self, skating my ass off, and being able to say Look at me. I did it.

Then I fell.

But, the lesson we learn in roller derby is it doesn't end with the fall.

I laid on my back like a turtle, knees in the air, screaming internally and burning physically. And then I did the most important thing of my life.

I got up.

I kept skating.

I finished the time.

And it was a little bit of a break-through moment. I can do this.

Can I get 25 laps — or even better, 27 — in 5 minutes? Yes, yes I can. Eventually I can. I didn't quit last night. I'm not quitting today. I'm trying again tomorrow.

Will I bout in Pullman on March 7? I don't know. And you know what, it's OK. I will still go, and I will NSO, and I will cheer on the incredible women who are there. The incredible women who scream and cheer and push and encourage me at every practice. I will encourage them.

And I will scream and cheer and encourage the skaters on the other team. Because we're all in this together. Our strength isn't found in proving to the world that we are capable.

It's only in proving it to ourselves.

Get back up. Keep skating. You got this.