big steps

I was just telling my friend Elaine at dinner last night that a month ago when I was very anxious about Coco's physical progress, I decided that when she started walking I would invite all of my friends for drinks and celebrate the momentous occasion. I had the event planned in my head. The way it would feel to finally be relieved from the worry of if, and more importantly when she would take those first steps.
A week ago Coco woke up from her nap, and just like that decided to give it a go. The video above are some of her very first independent steps. Now a week later she is walking around the house; granted she is still doing a lot of crawling she can walk. She seems most proficient when there is a goal in the visible distance. She is walking from object to object; person to person. Each day her confidence grows and her steps get faster. Her arms are still up in the air as if she is holding onto our fingers, or just finding her way of balancing.
What is most notable about her new stride is the pride you can see all over her face. She KNOWS she is doing something challenging, and she is excited about her accomplishment. There is determination in her eyes, heavy concentration, and when she finally gets to her destination - relief, glory, excitement, celebration.
And so she started walking, and not once did I think about having a party, or celebrating the occasion. My first thought and instinct was: my baby is growing up. My second thought was: she is clearly celebrating her achievement with each and every step. Just being around her and watching her move is better than any party I could have.
And of course when I got into bed that night the immense joy and pleasure I thought I would feel was actually a wee bit of melancholy, and reflection about her journey. We have come so far, SHE has come so far. It is only a tiny indication of where she is headed, with speed and determination, watch out world, Coco is on her way.

Riding the Wave

this polaroid of girl surfing hangs in our bedroom. taken by: 'she hit pause' studios.

I have never surfed before. In actuality, I can barely stick a toe in the ocean. My fear of the unknown, what I can not see that lies beneath the surface has always been so great that wading in deep blue has never appealed to me. The idea of surfing which entails both wading in these waters, and then riding a completely unpredictable natural element sounds terrifying. Im sure those who surf find exactly these things the excitement of the sport. For a cautious control freak like me, I appreciate known factors and predictability. I enjoy playing within constraints, always needing at least one fixed 'known'.


In the past month this aspect of my personality has been challenged. Crohn's disease has challenged us in new ways. The details and the history of the past month are so clear in my mind, but when I woke up today wanting to write about our collective experience, it was the events surrounding the illness that I found most profound. It reminded me of one of my favorite proverbs:

" Only in darkness can you see the stars."

The result of several weeks of doctors appointments, hospital visits, blood work, scopes, and massive amounts of stress was surgery. I brought David into the ER on a Friday night, and the following afternoon we were told - without ever speaking to one of David's doctors- surgery time. Once the initial shock set in, and we were finally able to speak with the necessary parties, we agreed that it was the best next step, and important that it happen quickly. And so it did. Two hours later he was on the table, and I was alone doing everything I could to keep it together.

Saturday nights in a hospital are very quiet. There are the obvious benefits of efficiency given the low patient flow, but there is something about the quiet that is very unsettling. After David was taken back for surgery, and I literally told the surgeon to do the best resection he had ever done, I wasn't sure what to do with myself. I was crawling out of my skin with anxiety, and waiting in a person-less - dead - waiting room just wasn't something I wanted to do. I decided to seek out the 'all faith' chapel (which took some searching). When I finally found it, it seemed that it was being packed up to move; there were boxes strewn around. On the small beema / pulpit / stage was a star of david, a menorah, and a rose. There were hundreds of jewish prayer books, a single bible, and a single koran. There was comfort in being surrounded by a faith that I grew up in, but when it came to what to do in the space I was at a loss. I picked up a prayer book, thumbed through, and quickly put it down. Prayer - from a prayer book- is not a daily part of my life. Throughout my day I speak to 'god' in my own way, give thanks, ask for help, say a 'prayer' but more informally. I began to think about this as I sat on the bench in the chapel.

When do I feel most connected to god? Immediately I answered, when I feel most connected to myself. When my connected self sees the beauty in others.
When do I feel most connected to myself? Easy. Yoga. My practice, the intentions I set for myself, the closeness I feel to myself and those around me, the way it translates to my actions my words my thoughts. This is god.

And before I knew it I was in downward dog. Flowing through a few vinyasas, feeling the moistness on my skin, the tears on my cheeks, my intention very simply to find the power to get through the next hour. That was it.

Minutes later I headed up to the waiting room and was greeted by dear friends who instinctively knew how hard it must be to wait alone. Their support got me though, provided a momentary distraction, and reminded me of the connection to others I thought about only moments before. The surgeon quickly came out, was positive and hopeful about his work, and from there things have only improved.


Having gone through this same surgery (different set of issues got us there) five years ago, David and I weren't new to it as a couple, but something felt different this time around. We have grown together, understand each others fears and needs, and in the moment managed to be good to one and other and ourselves. We allowed each others families and friends to support us in a more intimate way. David was more open with work and colleagues about what was going on. We had children to think about, and to teach. Life was more complex, but ultimately we managed more gracefully. In our openness we were received with such generosity and love that it was a clear and beautiful reminder of the relationships and accomplishments we have worked so hard for.

We debated about how to tell Isaac, what to share and when to share it. Ultimately we drew a parallel between his recent surgery getting tubes. How there was something in Daddy's tummy that was making him sick, and that the doctors needed to take it out. How Daddy was strong and brave and was going to be OK, but that he needed to stay in the hospital for a week so that the doctors could watch his tummy. My mom brought the kids to the hospital for a visit when David still had his IV pole. He was given 'plaza privileges' which meant he could leave his room and meet the kids on the plaza level. Kids aren't allowed into the hospital rooms. Isaac took a long stare at the IV pole and was very curious about the different boxes and buttons. We described it as a 'super hero pole' and that all of the medications that were going into daddy's arm were giving him super powers to get better. Isaac got to press the morphine button - a thrill for both Isaac and David when the strong 'beep' could be heard. Coco was just happy to see daddy, and clearly frustrated she couldn't climb all over him. Isaac has since described feelings of sadness because daddy's tummy hurts. Fear because his scar looks so scary. I explained to Isaac that this made him a good person because he showed 'empathy'. We spoke for a long time about this idea. Why it is important that we feel for others. Why when our family isn't well, we are not well.

Our extended (and in many ways nuclear) families have been so unbelievably supportive through this. Davids mom immediately flew out to be with him, and his brother came just after he left. My parents flew home from their trip to NY the day after they arrived with no hesitation. Without them this whole ordeal would have been nearly impossible. I continue to question how people manage without family and friends in these emergency situations. It is so critical to have people you can lean on, and to be a person in this world that others can lean on.

As for me - it was so difficult to figure out how I wanted to be supported. Some days I would wake up and just want to crawl back into bed. Others I would want my friends to pick me up for breakfast help me escape for a little while. Each day it would change. I immediately knew I had to cancel all plans in the immediate future. The plans were making me anxious. I didn't feel like being around groups of people, and I wanted to make sure I could be there for David. Again it was about the waves. Being unable to anticipate them, unable to know what was bubbling below the surface. The waves, they would come and go, ebb and flow. When I mentioned this to a dear friend of mine while I was spending a bunch of time at the hospital she said, just let me support you. I will figure out how. And then hours later a text message to meet her and some of my close friends at a restaurant near the hospital. And as soon as I arrived I knew it was exactly what I needed. They brought a thoughtfully packed care package, and their beautiful smiling faces that helped me make it through the final couple days.

care package

contents

Today I can easily say I have grown; as a wife, as a mother, as a friend, as a designer, ... Each of my hats fit a little more comfortably. They have all been challenged, put to the test. Each have survived, have thrived, have grown. I am a more empathetic person, more patient, more understanding.

"Now that i am more nearly a grown member of the human race...she thought that she had never before had a chance to realize the strength human beings have, to endure; she loved and revered all those who had ever suffered, even those who had failed to endure."

I have learned to surf. Perhaps not in the deep blue sea, but in my life I am surfing. Standing steady, riding the waves; each unpredictable, their timing varied and unknown, the depths below filled with life that I cant always see. In this moment I am in the 'barrel', surrounded by support and love, with only light in sight. I love surfing today. Tomorrow I could fall off the board gasping for air, but today, today I love surfing.