I used to be a total cynic. There was hardly a way for me to believe anyone cared about anyone else in this world. Close family and friends aside, I thought myself to be inconsequential to another human. As quick as a wink I learned just how deeply we are all intertwined.
The recent loss of our baby daughter, Calla, has left me an intellectual zombie. Going on emotional autopilot for days has given me a temporary reprieve from reality. But all around me are amazing people who hold me and my family up when all I want to do is collapse.
My sister-in-law and brother-in-law stayed nearly an entire weekend, with their your girls, at our house with our toddler Eliot. A huge disruption of their lives was endured without a blink of an eye. Our parents, my brother and sister-in-law, spending nearly an entire weekend in the hospital, waiting, watching, crying, consoling us and one another. My sister-in-law racing to get to the hospital to be with us--all these people who love us, pressing the "pause" button right along with us, telling us how much they love us. How can I ever say enough "thank yous?"
Our dear, beloved Reverend Joel Miller spent the night with us when Calla was born. He blessed her, dedicated her, named her with and for us. A man with a family and obligations of his own--at a moment's notice with us, comforting us. "Thank you" can't quite cut it.
Again, our wonderful families--feeding us, keeping the house running, entertaining Eliot and playing endless rounds of the "HIDE!" game. My conservative, stoic father-in-law heading to Wegmans for--of all things he never thought he'd buy for his son's wife--maxi pads. All this done as though it were a regular day of the week. Really, "thank you" is all I can think of?
Through the miracles of modern social networking I have received so many messages of condolences and comfort. I posted our experience as an end to my frequent pregnancy updates, and what I received as a response has been nothing short of astounding. People I haven't spoken to in many, many years, new friends, old friends, acquaintences, even strangers have offered words of comfort, shared sadness and hope. It amazes me that so many people would even care enough to write a simple "I'm sorry" or a long note--what have I done in my life to deserve such kindness?
I know time will pass and our pain will soften around the edges. The solid core of hurt will never fully fade, but all the kindness of others will help us see our way through.
About Me
- Mary Beth
- My life on the run. Balancing family, mental and physical exercise, and all the emotional baggage accumulated throughout several decades of living.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Calla Valentina
I knew on Friday morning something was wrong. I spent all day waiting for the baby inside me to start its usual dance routine, but after a full day of feeling next to nothing, deep down I knew.
We ended up going to the hospital at 11PM on the coldest night of the year. I brought along my measly-packed hospital bag just in case, but "in case" of what I had no idea. A nurse ran the Doppler over my swollen belly, searching for a heartbeat. At one point she took my pulse to see if the beats matched--and they did. After a sonogram by a junior resident, we knew for sure: our little baby was no longer alive inside me.
I screamed and sobbed,"This isn't real! This isn't real! What do I do now?" My husband beside me held me, rocked me, and let me know that it was, indeed, real. And really happening to US. The worst thing I could think of was now our immediate nightmare. What had I done? How did this happen? Why US? Why anyone, ever? We were given no answers, as there possibly could be none to give. While no one deserves this, it nevertheless happens.
My doctor arrived and told us I'd have to deliver this baby soon, so we decided to stay there and jump right into it. Little did I know what would happen over the next 36 hours. No one, not one woman, goes into her pregnancy thinking about her labor day entailing funeral homes and final resting places for her baby. We fear the physical pain, we decide where our babies will be born, we plan for life after delivery. We don't anticipate coming home from the hospital empty-armed with hearts broken.
Over the next 24 hours I was admitted, given IV fluids galore, pricked, prodded, and poked, and my body was encouraged to start labor. By the time I was induced at 2:15 on Saturday, it felt as though we'd been in that room for a lifetime. We were there through several shifts of nurses and doctors, all of whom were so incredibly kind and sympathetic I could hardly bear to look at them.
One by one my parents, inlaws, brother and sister-in-law, and pastor came to comfort us. The sadness in their faces matched mine, and I couldn't help but feel as though I'd caused their pain. They spent almost as much time in the hospital as we did. They were doing their best to support and care for us while nursing their own hurts and grief at the same time.
The anticipation of labor is a double-edged sword. On one side, the reality of the physical pain it produces makes me shudder, but the sweet joy of a brand-new baby on the other side of it is blissful. This time I would endure great physical pain, only to have our baby immediately taken from us. I could hold the baby, but could not take the baby home with us. She was already gone.
One of my blood tests revealed my platelet counts were low, and further tests showed the numbers dropping. This meant an epidural for pain management was a dangerous choice. A morphine drip offered my only comfort during round after excruciating round of back labor contractions. The final stages of labor were so intense I howled like a wild animal, sobbed, screamed and worked harder than I ever had in my life.
Our baby girl, Calla Valentina arrived at 10:15 on Saturday night. January 9th. Her birthday. 36 weeks into my pregnancy. From her black curly hair, to her rosebud mouth, to her tiny fingers and toes, she was perfect. She was big, 5 pounds and 4 ounces. She was beautiful. The cord and placenta were intact and perfect, too. The answers I so primally craved eluded me upon delivery. There was not one apparent reason she didn't make it.
While pregnant with Calla, I wondered how I could share my already-full heart with another child. I knew that night, instantly, how huge my heart could expand. And instantly all its pieces were shattered on the floor. All the times in my life that I thought had been sad were nothing compared to this. THIS was utter sadness and despair.
I held Calla, kissed her, examined her, talked to her. She looked like a little doll in my arms. I watched as our families and close friends sobbed, held her, and loved her too. I openly and loudly wept from the deepest part of my soul, feeling both empty and alone, and so incredibly blessed. I sobbed, "My little girl! I just want to keep her!"
Calla Valentina, our little girl. Instantly loved and missed. We might never have the answers to why she was taken from us. But she was with us. We love her. We miss her already. She is a part of our lives, a daughter and sister, a granddaughter and niece and friend we will never forget. She was my baby, if only for a short time.
We ended up going to the hospital at 11PM on the coldest night of the year. I brought along my measly-packed hospital bag just in case, but "in case" of what I had no idea. A nurse ran the Doppler over my swollen belly, searching for a heartbeat. At one point she took my pulse to see if the beats matched--and they did. After a sonogram by a junior resident, we knew for sure: our little baby was no longer alive inside me.
I screamed and sobbed,"This isn't real! This isn't real! What do I do now?" My husband beside me held me, rocked me, and let me know that it was, indeed, real. And really happening to US. The worst thing I could think of was now our immediate nightmare. What had I done? How did this happen? Why US? Why anyone, ever? We were given no answers, as there possibly could be none to give. While no one deserves this, it nevertheless happens.
My doctor arrived and told us I'd have to deliver this baby soon, so we decided to stay there and jump right into it. Little did I know what would happen over the next 36 hours. No one, not one woman, goes into her pregnancy thinking about her labor day entailing funeral homes and final resting places for her baby. We fear the physical pain, we decide where our babies will be born, we plan for life after delivery. We don't anticipate coming home from the hospital empty-armed with hearts broken.
Over the next 24 hours I was admitted, given IV fluids galore, pricked, prodded, and poked, and my body was encouraged to start labor. By the time I was induced at 2:15 on Saturday, it felt as though we'd been in that room for a lifetime. We were there through several shifts of nurses and doctors, all of whom were so incredibly kind and sympathetic I could hardly bear to look at them.
One by one my parents, inlaws, brother and sister-in-law, and pastor came to comfort us. The sadness in their faces matched mine, and I couldn't help but feel as though I'd caused their pain. They spent almost as much time in the hospital as we did. They were doing their best to support and care for us while nursing their own hurts and grief at the same time.
The anticipation of labor is a double-edged sword. On one side, the reality of the physical pain it produces makes me shudder, but the sweet joy of a brand-new baby on the other side of it is blissful. This time I would endure great physical pain, only to have our baby immediately taken from us. I could hold the baby, but could not take the baby home with us. She was already gone.
One of my blood tests revealed my platelet counts were low, and further tests showed the numbers dropping. This meant an epidural for pain management was a dangerous choice. A morphine drip offered my only comfort during round after excruciating round of back labor contractions. The final stages of labor were so intense I howled like a wild animal, sobbed, screamed and worked harder than I ever had in my life.
Our baby girl, Calla Valentina arrived at 10:15 on Saturday night. January 9th. Her birthday. 36 weeks into my pregnancy. From her black curly hair, to her rosebud mouth, to her tiny fingers and toes, she was perfect. She was big, 5 pounds and 4 ounces. She was beautiful. The cord and placenta were intact and perfect, too. The answers I so primally craved eluded me upon delivery. There was not one apparent reason she didn't make it.
While pregnant with Calla, I wondered how I could share my already-full heart with another child. I knew that night, instantly, how huge my heart could expand. And instantly all its pieces were shattered on the floor. All the times in my life that I thought had been sad were nothing compared to this. THIS was utter sadness and despair.
I held Calla, kissed her, examined her, talked to her. She looked like a little doll in my arms. I watched as our families and close friends sobbed, held her, and loved her too. I openly and loudly wept from the deepest part of my soul, feeling both empty and alone, and so incredibly blessed. I sobbed, "My little girl! I just want to keep her!"
Calla Valentina, our little girl. Instantly loved and missed. We might never have the answers to why she was taken from us. But she was with us. We love her. We miss her already. She is a part of our lives, a daughter and sister, a granddaughter and niece and friend we will never forget. She was my baby, if only for a short time.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Anything You Can Do I Can Do Pregnant
Well, maybe not ANYTHING. Eating my favorite spicy tuna roll, washed down with a giant icy can of Sapporo is going to have to wait a few more months.
But I'm talking about running. Ahhh yes, my old frenemy--running.
The first time I was pregnant I was a bit of a worrywort. I stopped running about 4 months in, mostly out of discomfort, but partly too out of concern. What was all that sloshing around doing to my little alien baby?
With the Deuce, I've already run in two races, and am signed up for at least two more this Fall. Just 5k's, but they keep me motivated to get my weekly runs logged in. I am DETERMINED to run right to the Turkey Trot, and possibly beyond. That will put the Deuce at about 7 months gestation, and I think we can do it.
What other people think is an entirely different bag. My belly is getting significantly bigger. I'm actually thrilled about this, as we're passed the, "Boy, MB should really lay off the chips and dip" stage to "Oh, I guess she's just pregnant again" stage. We're not quite at the, as Christopher so lovingly dubbed it, "Preggo-mundo" stage.
As I was huffing and puffing my way down Delaware this morning, I noticed I was getting some out and out stares from people driving by. Now, I know it's a real sexy look, sweaty tomato face and all, but I can't help but wonder if they're judging me.
Duh, of course they're judging me! They're human, we are all guilty of that (yes, even you). I have read a LOT about running while pregnant. I've spent time lurking on pregnant-runner forums and have consulted with my doctor. Everything I do is perfectly safe, and since I've been working out for more than half my life, I am pretty aware of what's happening with my body. When it hurts, we're done.
I see the looks on the old lady faces, the disapproving glances and open-mouthed stares. Oh well. I'm no Olympian, but I feel like if I keep running, and doing and going, it helps other women and my own kids see what our bodies can do. As much time as I have spent agonizing over my body and its shape, I'm pretty happy it can do lots of wonderful things.
Like hauling around my huge self, with one along for the ride.
But I'm talking about running. Ahhh yes, my old frenemy--running.
The first time I was pregnant I was a bit of a worrywort. I stopped running about 4 months in, mostly out of discomfort, but partly too out of concern. What was all that sloshing around doing to my little alien baby?
With the Deuce, I've already run in two races, and am signed up for at least two more this Fall. Just 5k's, but they keep me motivated to get my weekly runs logged in. I am DETERMINED to run right to the Turkey Trot, and possibly beyond. That will put the Deuce at about 7 months gestation, and I think we can do it.
What other people think is an entirely different bag. My belly is getting significantly bigger. I'm actually thrilled about this, as we're passed the, "Boy, MB should really lay off the chips and dip" stage to "Oh, I guess she's just pregnant again" stage. We're not quite at the, as Christopher so lovingly dubbed it, "Preggo-mundo" stage.
As I was huffing and puffing my way down Delaware this morning, I noticed I was getting some out and out stares from people driving by. Now, I know it's a real sexy look, sweaty tomato face and all, but I can't help but wonder if they're judging me.
Duh, of course they're judging me! They're human, we are all guilty of that (yes, even you). I have read a LOT about running while pregnant. I've spent time lurking on pregnant-runner forums and have consulted with my doctor. Everything I do is perfectly safe, and since I've been working out for more than half my life, I am pretty aware of what's happening with my body. When it hurts, we're done.
I see the looks on the old lady faces, the disapproving glances and open-mouthed stares. Oh well. I'm no Olympian, but I feel like if I keep running, and doing and going, it helps other women and my own kids see what our bodies can do. As much time as I have spent agonizing over my body and its shape, I'm pretty happy it can do lots of wonderful things.
Like hauling around my huge self, with one along for the ride.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
The Mrs. Of Sisyphus
Albert Camus should write a novel about me.
Not that I pissed off Zeus, or think that the only solution to an absurd life is suicide or anything, but this housework gig is really making me channel "Groundhog Day."
Keeping a house clean is an act of absurdity in and of itself. I have long since come to grips with the self-filling laundry basket and dishwasher. I remember long ago thinking the only way my laundry would ever be truly "done" is if I spent the majority of my life naked.
No one wants that, believe me.
But having recently moved into a house that is largely decorated in tones of white, off-white, ercu and cream, I am learning just how much cleaning is required of me. Specifically the floors, countertops and walls. Somedays I wonder if it's really worth it to even haul out the vacuum at all.
I fall pretty squarely between slob and neat-freak. I like a nice vacuumed rug, a clean, germ-free countertop, and floors free from piles of dirty clothing/toys/dog hair. I do not, however, get down and scrub the baseboards with a toothbrush or even regularly rid the ceilings of cobwebs. Sorry if you're grossed out, but it's not worth it to me.
But once I opened the door to a cleaner, hairless world, there was no turning back. We moved in and I vowed to scrub, dust, and disinfect every last square inch of this place. Har, har har.
Every time I thought the (white vinyl) kitchen floor was clean, I'd turn around and . . . "Where the hell did that paw print come from!?" Or I'd vacuum the (off-white) carpet within an inch of its life and . . . "Goddamnit there's another hair ball." Ugh, forget it. I see fingerprints on my cupboards in my sleep, and I have long since ceded the windows to hand and noseprints forever.
Ultimately, who cares, right? I know I shouldn't. As long as the house is clean for company, and I clean enough to keep us from turning into a House of Squalor, that's good enough. But sometimes that damn pawprint makes me feel like the crappiest housekeeper--which spirals into mother--in the world.
But then I think to myself, "Even if I clean it up, it will be back again." So sometimes, I just leave it.
Not that I pissed off Zeus, or think that the only solution to an absurd life is suicide or anything, but this housework gig is really making me channel "Groundhog Day."
Keeping a house clean is an act of absurdity in and of itself. I have long since come to grips with the self-filling laundry basket and dishwasher. I remember long ago thinking the only way my laundry would ever be truly "done" is if I spent the majority of my life naked.
No one wants that, believe me.
But having recently moved into a house that is largely decorated in tones of white, off-white, ercu and cream, I am learning just how much cleaning is required of me. Specifically the floors, countertops and walls. Somedays I wonder if it's really worth it to even haul out the vacuum at all.
I fall pretty squarely between slob and neat-freak. I like a nice vacuumed rug, a clean, germ-free countertop, and floors free from piles of dirty clothing/toys/dog hair. I do not, however, get down and scrub the baseboards with a toothbrush or even regularly rid the ceilings of cobwebs. Sorry if you're grossed out, but it's not worth it to me.
But once I opened the door to a cleaner, hairless world, there was no turning back. We moved in and I vowed to scrub, dust, and disinfect every last square inch of this place. Har, har har.
Every time I thought the (white vinyl) kitchen floor was clean, I'd turn around and . . . "Where the hell did that paw print come from!?" Or I'd vacuum the (off-white) carpet within an inch of its life and . . . "Goddamnit there's another hair ball." Ugh, forget it. I see fingerprints on my cupboards in my sleep, and I have long since ceded the windows to hand and noseprints forever.
Ultimately, who cares, right? I know I shouldn't. As long as the house is clean for company, and I clean enough to keep us from turning into a House of Squalor, that's good enough. But sometimes that damn pawprint makes me feel like the crappiest housekeeper--which spirals into mother--in the world.
But then I think to myself, "Even if I clean it up, it will be back again." So sometimes, I just leave it.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Finding the Funny
They say if you don't laugh you'll cry. Well, by "they" I mean "me," and I say it about a hundred times a day.
I love love love love LOVE being a stay-at-home-mom. I really do. But there are days, like at any job, where I want to jump off the roof because I have no idea what to do. So on those days, as well as every other day, I like to find something to make me laugh. I usually don't have to look too far.
Yesterday, little E decided to use the insert of my Bundt pan for a megaphone. He walked all around the first floor yelling into the Bundt pan, making both himself and me laugh for a good few minutes.
The other day I was in the basement and C was watching TV. Little E was--uh oh--quiet for a few minutes in the living room. C calls to me :"MB, did you put him there?"
Oh shit, where?
I run into the living room only to find E balanced INSIDE the drawer of the coffee table, sitting cross-legged and chillin. How he got in there, up there, and didn't break the table, I'll never know. Of course I didn't have my camera.
This morning, before I decided to move all the boxes of unframed and unhung pictures from the 3rd bedroom, little E proudly brought me a matted black-and-white photo, given to us by our former neighbor. He then proceeded to throw it on the floor and dance around on it like he was on a street corner in Harlem in the '80s. "Breakin III" if you will.
Out of all these ridiculous happenings I am growing my patience. Some things are funnier than others, some things really make me want to beat my head against the wall. But I know when he's older, and would rather die than act silly in front of me, I'll remember the funny.
And who knows? Maybe he'll be "that" kid--the one always cracking everybody up. I kinda hope so.
I love love love love LOVE being a stay-at-home-mom. I really do. But there are days, like at any job, where I want to jump off the roof because I have no idea what to do. So on those days, as well as every other day, I like to find something to make me laugh. I usually don't have to look too far.
Yesterday, little E decided to use the insert of my Bundt pan for a megaphone. He walked all around the first floor yelling into the Bundt pan, making both himself and me laugh for a good few minutes.
The other day I was in the basement and C was watching TV. Little E was--uh oh--quiet for a few minutes in the living room. C calls to me :"MB, did you put him there?"
Oh shit, where?
I run into the living room only to find E balanced INSIDE the drawer of the coffee table, sitting cross-legged and chillin. How he got in there, up there, and didn't break the table, I'll never know. Of course I didn't have my camera.
This morning, before I decided to move all the boxes of unframed and unhung pictures from the 3rd bedroom, little E proudly brought me a matted black-and-white photo, given to us by our former neighbor. He then proceeded to throw it on the floor and dance around on it like he was on a street corner in Harlem in the '80s. "Breakin III" if you will.
Out of all these ridiculous happenings I am growing my patience. Some things are funnier than others, some things really make me want to beat my head against the wall. But I know when he's older, and would rather die than act silly in front of me, I'll remember the funny.
And who knows? Maybe he'll be "that" kid--the one always cracking everybody up. I kinda hope so.
Monday, August 17, 2009
Tiny Toddling Tower of Terror
Oh. My. God.
Naptime at last, and not a minute too soon. Sure, I'm punishing my future self by putting little E down for an early one. But present-me needs a breather.
It's 8 thousand degrees out, no AC on the first floor, and my little toddler won't/can't/doesn't sit still, ever. And while it's fun to watch his antics, chasing him up and down stairs, redirecting him off the bay windowsills and bookshelves, and gently reminding him that tails are not for pulling has worn thin for the morning.
Too bad we're already on nap #2, and it's only 12:15. Holy shit.
It's times like these I wonder if I'll ever regain my sanity. I knew all I was getting into when we had a baby. The infant thing--constant nursing, lack of sleep, crying (his and mine), worry and wonder and diapers galore--I had that down pat. No one ever told me about what happens next. How this helpless little creature you lovingly held and cooed at will turn into a screaming, climbing, running, screaming, digging, scooting, exploring, screaming little guy.
Did I mention that he screams?
I wonder daily if this is "normal" toddler behavior. I can't exactly call the pediatrician and discuss the 9 million ways my little guy has gotten into, onto and under the furniture and drawers. Everyone says, "oh yes, this is what they do."
Really?
And then, whenever I ask a question, I get the invariable, "Just wait! Just wait until you have two!!!" Um, yes, we're waiting, and it's filling me with dread.
Because we soon WILL have two, and every night I go to bed wondering, "what the hell is coming next?"
I can only hope my anticipation of the Deuce's arrival is making me more anxious than I really need to be. But I can't help but worry I won't be able to do it.
Anyway, it's naptime, and probably won't be for long. It's too hot to eat or think or even breathe, but I am going to chill and try to cut the worrying for now.
Naptime at last, and not a minute too soon. Sure, I'm punishing my future self by putting little E down for an early one. But present-me needs a breather.
It's 8 thousand degrees out, no AC on the first floor, and my little toddler won't/can't/doesn't sit still, ever. And while it's fun to watch his antics, chasing him up and down stairs, redirecting him off the bay windowsills and bookshelves, and gently reminding him that tails are not for pulling has worn thin for the morning.
Too bad we're already on nap #2, and it's only 12:15. Holy shit.
It's times like these I wonder if I'll ever regain my sanity. I knew all I was getting into when we had a baby. The infant thing--constant nursing, lack of sleep, crying (his and mine), worry and wonder and diapers galore--I had that down pat. No one ever told me about what happens next. How this helpless little creature you lovingly held and cooed at will turn into a screaming, climbing, running, screaming, digging, scooting, exploring, screaming little guy.
Did I mention that he screams?
I wonder daily if this is "normal" toddler behavior. I can't exactly call the pediatrician and discuss the 9 million ways my little guy has gotten into, onto and under the furniture and drawers. Everyone says, "oh yes, this is what they do."
Really?
And then, whenever I ask a question, I get the invariable, "Just wait! Just wait until you have two!!!" Um, yes, we're waiting, and it's filling me with dread.
Because we soon WILL have two, and every night I go to bed wondering, "what the hell is coming next?"
I can only hope my anticipation of the Deuce's arrival is making me more anxious than I really need to be. But I can't help but worry I won't be able to do it.
Anyway, it's naptime, and probably won't be for long. It's too hot to eat or think or even breathe, but I am going to chill and try to cut the worrying for now.
Wednesday, June 10, 2009
But we're friends!
In this age of creating and re-creating personal connections through social networking sites like Facebook, it's hard to imagine how so many of our "friends" have slipped through the cracks in our lives.
When I first jumped on the Facebook bandwagon, I spent hours looking through old friends' walls, pictures and posts. How could I have lost touch with so many of these interesting, funny and successful people? And even more baffling, how the heck do I even KNOW so many people? All my high school and college friends and acquaintances are scattered throughout the country, even the world. There were times in my life when many of these long-lost friends were as indispensible to my well being as food and water. How could I have gone so long without any contact whatsoever?
As with any novelty, the allure of Facebook began to wane. Those inital days of getting friend request after friend request had me in a frenzy not unlike the first days at a new school, but eventually the requests dwindled. The same friends posted the same things with relative frequency, and the number of people I wanted to "friend" or be "friended" by grew stagnant. I began to grow--GASP--bored with my new little pet. And Facebook was starting to make me feel inadequate. Why didn't I go to an Ivy League school? Why do I have crazy pictures of my friends at girls' night out on my wall? Why don't I live in Guatemala? Why don't I have my own internet business and five kids and my Ph.D. and a book on the bestseller list? What must all my "friends" think of my life as a teacher, living in Buffalo, being a stay-at-home mom?
But then I started to see the frayed edges on the designer dress that is Facebook. "Friends" of mine posted opinions diametrically opposed to my political views. This was especially true around inauguration time. Another "friend" or two posted opinions about children and motherhood which dissed my choice of lifestyle. Yet another "friend" posted conservative vitriol about a recent tragedy involving a murdered doctor. How in the world are these people my "friends?!"
I guess it all boils down to this: everyone comes and goes into and out of our lives for reasons we may or may not know. The choices we make on the paths of our lives--good or bad--deliver us to where we sit today. Personally, I have made my peace with my life, and I realize I have a pretty damn good one.
No, I don't get the invite to the Harvard Alum summer barbeque, nor do I have Peace Corps experience or wild nights out or any of that jazz a lot of my "friends" do. But I do take comfort in knowing all these people are out there in the world, somewhere, and at some point--now, or someday down the road--we can remember why we're connected. We may not always agree, we might not go to the same parties or stand on the same side of the picket line or vote for the same candidates, but there's a thread of humanness that connects us more deeply than our beliefs and opinions. And I guess that's the point of it all.
When I first jumped on the Facebook bandwagon, I spent hours looking through old friends' walls, pictures and posts. How could I have lost touch with so many of these interesting, funny and successful people? And even more baffling, how the heck do I even KNOW so many people? All my high school and college friends and acquaintances are scattered throughout the country, even the world. There were times in my life when many of these long-lost friends were as indispensible to my well being as food and water. How could I have gone so long without any contact whatsoever?
As with any novelty, the allure of Facebook began to wane. Those inital days of getting friend request after friend request had me in a frenzy not unlike the first days at a new school, but eventually the requests dwindled. The same friends posted the same things with relative frequency, and the number of people I wanted to "friend" or be "friended" by grew stagnant. I began to grow--GASP--bored with my new little pet. And Facebook was starting to make me feel inadequate. Why didn't I go to an Ivy League school? Why do I have crazy pictures of my friends at girls' night out on my wall? Why don't I live in Guatemala? Why don't I have my own internet business and five kids and my Ph.D. and a book on the bestseller list? What must all my "friends" think of my life as a teacher, living in Buffalo, being a stay-at-home mom?
But then I started to see the frayed edges on the designer dress that is Facebook. "Friends" of mine posted opinions diametrically opposed to my political views. This was especially true around inauguration time. Another "friend" or two posted opinions about children and motherhood which dissed my choice of lifestyle. Yet another "friend" posted conservative vitriol about a recent tragedy involving a murdered doctor. How in the world are these people my "friends?!"
I guess it all boils down to this: everyone comes and goes into and out of our lives for reasons we may or may not know. The choices we make on the paths of our lives--good or bad--deliver us to where we sit today. Personally, I have made my peace with my life, and I realize I have a pretty damn good one.
No, I don't get the invite to the Harvard Alum summer barbeque, nor do I have Peace Corps experience or wild nights out or any of that jazz a lot of my "friends" do. But I do take comfort in knowing all these people are out there in the world, somewhere, and at some point--now, or someday down the road--we can remember why we're connected. We may not always agree, we might not go to the same parties or stand on the same side of the picket line or vote for the same candidates, but there's a thread of humanness that connects us more deeply than our beliefs and opinions. And I guess that's the point of it all.
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